The Ghost Of 221b
by violinhugger
Summary: After John dies in a tragic attack, Sherlock finds that he is the only person who can see him. And now a deadly enemy is after revenge. Revenge that could end up with Sherlock dead.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One: The Tragedy

Running like a maniac was taking up an awful lot of John's time. It seemed that was the only thing he and Sherlock did anymore. Sherlock was ahead of him, the man could sprint when he wanted and John was beginning to tire. He'd been running for almost a solid hour, chasing a man who was fast as an olympic athlete - no doubt through the use of steroids.

"Sherlock," John panted, using up the last of his energy to dart to his friends side, "Can we please stop, you can't even see him anymore."

"No, but I know where he's going." Sherlock took a quick look at John and stopped, "You look exhausted."

"I know, that's why I wanted to stop." Now they were montionless, John leaned over and braced his hands on his knees, breathing heavily. "Can we go home?"

"Yes, I should think so. You need to rest. No way you can continue like this." Sherlock looked around and pulled John into a standing position, he led him over to a wall. John noticed they were in an alley, it was dark, cramped and smelled horrible, but he needed to close his eyes and catch his breath. He leaned gratefully against Sherlock who helped him stay standing.

"I've let myself go since Afghanistan." John smiled, "You'd think, with all the cases we've been doing, I'd have been able to keep my fitness up."

"You've been sprinting for an hour, John. You haven't done _that_ for a long time. It's alright, we'll get him tomorrow. I know where he is now."

"How, exactly?"

"Well the general direction he was running and the left side of his right foot indicate that..." Sherlock began to rattle off his deduction, and for a while John listened intently, but then it got to the point where he grew weary. It was a long one this, John usually allowed his mind to wander, it was clear that Sherlock wouldn't appreciate the normal 'amazing!' or 'fantastic!' he received. Sherlock was pointing towards the direction of the suspect, still waffling away - more to himself now than to John. Which was fine, it gave John time to close his eyes and lean his head back against the brick, waiting for his pulse to calm down.

Obviously, his head began to fill with all kind of rubbish, but when Sherlock yelled, "John!" and pulled him away from the wall so violently he fell to the floor, he was shocked into focus.

"John, move!" He rolled quickly out the way, as a tall, muscular, middle aged man dived at him with a knife. John jumped to his feet and punched once, quickly, aiming his blow at the mans face. It was the murder suspect, the one they had been chasing all night. Sherlock came up behind the murderer just after John had punched him and brought his knee up hard into his spine. The man roared and fell to all fours, where John kicked him in the stomach to wind him, then disarmed him.

"Definately the murderer." John said, admiring the knife. It was well made, someone had put a lot of thought into it. He hoped the maker didn't know what it would be used for.

"Mm. Seems like." Sherlock crouched over the man, who was gasping for breath. John's well placed kick had left him clutching his ribs, fractured as a result of John's army training. "We'll phone an ambulance for you," Sherlock whispered, "But you'll be in prison by the end of the week." He stood up and wiped alley muck from his hands.  
>John reached into his pocket for his phone and held it above his head looking for signal.<p>

"Sherlock, can you check yours for signal? I've got none here."

Sherlock did as he was told - something new that he would only do for John - and left the alley in search of better reception. John was left with the injured murderer. He thought it would be best to check his wounds, that knee of Sherlock's had caused serious injury in the past. As John crouched over him, feeling for his pulse, the man stirred and opened his eyes.

"They aren't going to arrest me are they?" He croaked.

"Of course they are. You do realise what you've done?" In a few previous cases, some of the murderers or robbers had forgotten what they had done, especially if John had recently punched them. In times like these there was no point being rough with them, they wouldn't talk.

The man nodded, "But it wasn't my fault."

"Whether it was your fault or not, you killed four people on that bus, including a child. Where your going, you'll be lucky not to get life."

"But-"

"Shut up." John growled, "Let me check your wounds. I'm a doctor."

So it went for a while, Sherlock had wandered out of sight, which he wasn't too worried about, signal in this area was scarse. But John could take of himself. Most of the time.

Sherlock had been gone a little too long, John was getting worried. With a frown, he looked up from the man and stared at the entrance to the alley.

"Where the hell-" As he braced his hands, preparing to stand up, the man on the ground grabbed his ankle and twisted, causing John to land painfully on his back, head smashing the wet concrete floor with an audible smack. He grunted and instantly reached for the back of his head, where he felt a large gash streaming with blood. Fractured skull. "Sher-" He tried to shout and stand but the man straddled him and put his hand over his mouth.  
>"Now, now Doctor. No need to call for your boyfriend."<p>

The old boyfriend joke automatically made John roll his eyes. "We're not..." His words were muffled against the mans rough sweaty hands and he realised now probably wasn't the best time to confirm his heterosexuality. He struggled and pushed, but he wasn't strong enough. This guy was faster than Sherlock, built like a pump house addict and managed to sneak up on them both. He was strong, too strong. John could feel his weight pressing down on his ribs, they ached and moaned in protest, but the man didn't relent. He smirked and reached into John's jacket pocket, pulling out the knife.

"You should never believe someone when they say murder wasn't their fault. It makes you sympathise with them, even if you don't realise it. You feel sorry for them, they'll be going to jail for something they may not have wanted to do. I want to do this though, very much." John's eyes widened and he struggled harder, the knife slid painfully down his cheek, warm blood spilling from the wound. He yelped in pain and tried biting the mans hand, but it didn't work. He wouldn't let go. The zipper from his jacket was pulled down and his shirt lifted to expose his stomach. John shook his head, shouting behind salty fingers to let him go. He saw the knife, raise into the air, he watched as it arched down and slid once deeply into the soft flesh of his stomach. He screamed, loudly, even with the fleshy gag. Sherlock must have heard that, must come to save him...

Knife, skin. Knife, skin. Twice more it plunged, twice more it came out bloody, on the fourth time, the knife was yanked out of his hand and plunged into the killers neck. By now, John was too far gone. He couldn't hear much, couldn't see much, it was just pain. But when he felt arms around his chest, and hands pressing down over the torn muscles he knew it was Sherlock. He could only smell his own blood, only see darkness, but he knew that the figure holding him smelled like coffee, and science, and the new lynx shower gel that John had brought him. He also knew he was crying, distantly John could hear his own name repeated, shouted loudly, along with various phrases like, "Not like this... don't do this, John! The ambulance is coming... I don't want to be alone again..." If he could have smiled he would have, for now he knew. Sherlock wasn't a sociopath, he cared. Finally, he cared about something. John.

_I don't want to leave you, _John thought, _take care of yourself Sherlock, don't slip away into your drug fuelled days again. I'll miss you._

That's what was hurting the most, he didn't want to leave, it wasn't fair! He couldn't leave Sherlock like this, he couldn't! John had tasted death before, twice. Once in Afghanistan, when he was shot. The second at the pool, strapped to semtex. Both times Sherlock had saved him. Sherlock had made him feel alive again after returning to London, gave him something to live for. He had risked his own life to try and save John, staying with him until almost certain death. But he couldn't save him from this. Something so simple, destroyed the strong man Sherlock had built. John knew what was happening to his insides. They were bleeding, inside and outside, his brain was probably bleeding from when he hit his head. The knife was too long and sharp to have spared any vital organs.  
>"Sherlock..." He whispered. His eyes, unseeing though they were, closed. John H. Watson, died in Sherlocks arms.<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two: Coping.

Sherlock didn't know how to take things easy. He never had and nor did he want to. He enjoyed being dramatic, he liked it. He liked rampaging through his flat, screaming, beating the walls, howling, tipping the furniture upside down and punching the mantlepeice. It calmed him down, it gave his mind time to stop thinking, to rage as much as he liked without deducing anything.

After he had destroyed the flat, he ran his hands through his hair and pulled roughly, embracing the pain. He took deep breaths, a calming technique which worked on normal people. Evidently it didn't work on him. There was one peice of furniture that he hadn't dared to touch; John's armchair. It had stayed standing, surrounded by the mess that Sherlock had created. It looked cold and lonely. When John was alive, he would sit there for hours, reading or talking to his army mates through facebook or twitter. The chair would look warm and comfy, even when he wasn't sat on it, as if it knew that it's owner would sit there again. It waited expentantly. Now it looked just as sad as Sherlock. It was only a chair, but it seemed to know that John wasn't coming back to it, wasn't going to sit on it and rest there anymore. It made tears well up in Sherlock's eyes. To be so lonely again...

Sherlock impatiently brushed away the water in his eyes before he allowed them to spill. He had only cried once for John, on the night that he had held him until he passed away. After that, he did his best to remain steely eyed. Even when the ambulance came and took him and John away, he hadn't cried then. He hadn't cried when they told him that there was nothing they could do, that he was gone and wasn't coming back. It hurt him, more than the death of his Father, more than all the failed cases. For a while he didn't understand what he was feeling, until he got home and collapsed in a heap on the floor. He'd curled into a ball, his coat acting like the shock blanket he so desperately needed.

But it had been almost two weeks now, no more curling on the floor, no more pining. What's done is done, as Mycroft had reminded him more than once. Whilst he understood that, it didn't stop the anger and sadness from escaping him sometimes. He'd only ransacked the place twice, both times making a terrible mess and sometimes unrepairable damage, but it made him feel slightly better. Even now, looking around the apartment, he felt better. Still not good, but ok enough that he could clean up without being distracted.

Once the flat was in order again, he slumped exhausted onto the sofa, extending his legs and twitching his toes on the armrest. He sat with his hands steepled under his chin, always thinking.

_I can't keep living like this. I have to move on. Mrs Hudson's threatened to kick me out once already... and I can't lose this place. It's all that connects me to him. But how do i control myself? I don't even understand what's happening to me...  
><em>

Sherlock had been thinking a lot more like a normal person since John's untimely death, more about himself and how he felt. The only problem was, he'd never cared so much about anything in his life and it confused him. What did John do to help keep his emotions in check...?

Sherlock frowned to himself as he remembered a particularly bad day for the doctor. John had come home at almost six in the morning, bedraggled and exhausted. His clothes and face were a mess and he was swaying so much Sherlock feared he was going to topple over. He ran straight past Sherlock into the bathroom where he was violently sick. He fell asleep crouched next to the toilet. The next morning, he had grunted good morning to Sherlock and made a cup of tea. A hangover, he called it. He'd been drunk, very drunk, all becuase of Harry. She had baited him, calling him at stupid hours, shouting at him and blaming him for her break up with Clara almost three years previous. She'd been back on the drink and John had had to step in to deal with her. The verbal abuse and reluctance he had met that night drove him to drink himself, just for one night. Well, if John had done it...

Sherlock stood up and slowly walked into the kitchen. He passed all the usual cupboards, the ones with the Jaffa Cakes and other snacks, and went straight to John's cupboard. Sherlock hadn't been allowed in it before, John didn't want to risk a drunk Sherlock stumbling around London. As Sherlock's hand touched the handle, he felt a pang of guilt, _John wouldn't want me in here._ He thought. _But he would want me to be able to cope. And maybe this is the way I will. _He reached in and pulled out three bottles of whiskey. He'd never had any before and when he downed the first mouthful - straight out the bottle - he realised why. It burned as he swallowed, he winced and coughed, licking around his mouth as his tongue throbbed at the unpleasent taste and firey sensation. But it felt good as it touched his stomach. It warmed it and he sighed. He could see this working. So he poured some into a crystal tumbler also in the cupboard and drank it down. By the fifth drink, he no longer felt the burn. By the twentieth, he was feeling sick, drowsy and had vomited once already. His head hurt, his vision was obscurred and he couldn't remember why he was drinking... he knew it was something important... something very bad had happened. But this was the reason he was drinking, to stop him thinking about it. It was working, so for the next few hours, he drank himself into a painful oblivion.

"Sherlock please, stop."

"John?" Sherlock jumped off the floor of the kitchen, head spinning. He groaned and placed his hands on the table to balance himself. He closed his eyes. "John!" He shouted, the loud noise peircing his head.

"Go to bed. Stop drinking. Please, don't damage that remarkable brain."

John's voice! Definately! Sherlock grinned wildly to himself, he had heard John. Whether it was just the drink fuelling halluncinations, or wild hope that somehow John was still ok, it didn't matter. He had heard him. From a distance and slightly blurry, but with an unmistakable disapointment and care that no one else had ever showed him. Sherlock was never one to believe in ghosts. Never. But this event had given him an idea. He turned behind him with determination and a little bit of insanity. He reached back into John's cupboard to pull out the joke product that John had brought for a laugh last halloween. _Mrs Magika's Ouji Board._


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three; Contact

Sherlock remembered with a smile where the board had come from. It had been their first halloween living together and John was determined to make Sherlock celebrate. Of course, Sherlock hadn't been interested, but had humoured John and had actually helped put up a couple of fake spiderwebs and plastic skeletons. John had taken it one step further and had dressed up in his old army gear, even putting on khaki coloured war paints over his face. Sherlock had refused to dress up. John had bought him a skeleton costume, mainly to point out how skinny he was. Instead, the costume lay untouched on Sherlock's bed. Just to make John happy, he had put on a bit of eyeliner (he'd needed it for a case, a man who owned a gay bar was a suspect for murder and Sherlock had to perfect his outfit just to get in) and a little white face paint.

_"Your gonna love this, Sherlock."_

_"I doubt that very much." John had walked into the flat holding a box with a ouji board inside it. He shook it like it was a wrapped present and he was trying to guess what it was. Sherlock shook his head, "No, John."_

_"Why not? I've always wanted one of these."_

_"You really want to communicate with the dead? What if we get that taxi driver or Jennifer Wilson?" Sherlock smirked as John set up the board on the coffee table, lighting candles and singing in his cheeky high pitched singing voice._

_"They're coming to take me away, ha ha! They're coming to take me away!"_

_"Really?" Sherlock asked, kneeling on the other side of the coffee table and placing his hand over John's on the little arrow shaped indicator._

_"Yes really. Humour me."_

_"I am."_

_John took a deep breath and began in an ominous tone, "Oh spirits, if you are there... please, move this, tell us your thoughts... unless you were a serial killer taxi driver or a victim of one of his crimes." John added with a wink at Sherlock, who rolled his eyes. Nothing happened so they waited and John asked again. Still no reply. Sherlock was getting agitated very quickly, this childish game wasn't scaring him at all and the lack of respone was at best predictiable._

_"Can we put this away now? Please?" Sherlock asked._

_"One more go." John stared intently at the cursor, "Oi, ghosties. Come out and play. It's halloween and theres a consulting detective opposite me who I'm desperate to prove wrong." John smiled at Sherlock and sighed, "Yeah, we can put it away. It was a long shot really."_

_"Just a bit." They both stood and put the box in the whiskey cupboard where it was unlikely to be disturbed. After a week, both men had almost completely forgotten about it.  
><em>

That is, until Sherlock found it again. For old times sake and out of desperation, he took it into the living room and set it up in exactly the same place that John had before. Safe to say, he felt more than a little stupid. It didn't stop him though, instead it spurred him on.

"Come on John, prove me wrong." He tentatively placed his hand on the cursor and took a deep breath. "John? I know you'd probably be laughing at me for doing this but... I need to talk to you." Nothing happened, as he had expected. It still didn't stop the little hope he had disappearing. "Please, John. I... I don't think I can cope anymore." He waited for five seconds, with no response. Just as he was about to give up, he felt the cursor twitch under his fingers. "John?" He croaked, "Was that you?" The cursor moved again, slightly more this time. He could visbably see it move. Sherlock grinned widely and let out a breath of a laugh. "Well I didn't think that would work. I'm genuinely surprised." The cursor moved over the letters; **S. H. E. R.**Then stopped. "Yes it's me." Sherlock whispered. "Hello again."

**S.H.E.R.L.O.C.K  
><strong>  
>"Getting better at this are you?" Sherlock sobbed, "This is unbelieveable. I seriously need to re consider some of my experiments. Is it, ok? Where you are?"<p>

The arrow moved quickly over the little **YES **in the top corner.

"Good, good." Sherlock cleared his throat, "Is... is there anyway I could see you?" He was getting happier as this continued, part of his mind wanted to believe it was true, but another part said that he must still be high, and imagining everything. The cursor was moving quickly now, all over the board. It seemed like John was trying to gather strength, try to get better. He managed to symbol a large response, to which Sherlock was deadly proud.

**I. D.O.N.T. T.H.I.N.K. S.O.  
><strong>  
>Sherlock gulped, "Try, please. I need to see you."<p>

**O.K.  
><strong>  
>Sherlock waited patiently for a minute, watching the board, the room, everywhere he could. But John didn't appear. He tried talking through the board again but John wouldn't reply. He wasn't there any more. He'd gone. "John, don't leave me again! Please! Please, John!"<p>

"Stop your shouting! It's a bloody wonder the neighbours don't complain."

Sherlock looked around again, his eyes coming to rest on the translucent figure on John's armchair. It was him. Broad shouldered, wearing a cream jumper, short blondy brown hair, warm brown eyes, John.

Sherlock jumped up and his mouth began opening and closing like a fishes.

"Hey Sherlock." John said.

"Oh my god." Sherlock hurried over and tried to reach out, tried to lift John into his arms and hold him like he'd wanted to since he'd died. But it was no use, his arms passed right through him, feeling just like cold air.

"Yeah that won't work. Sorry. I tried my hardest to become solid, but the best I could get was this." he gestured to his chest, through which sherlock could see the chair behind him, "It's not much."

"No, it's everything. Thank you, so much." Sherlock fell backwards onto his own armchair and sat for ages. Both men stared into the others eyes like there was nothing else in the world. After a while though, John cleared his throat.  
>"If there was anything you needed to tell me, I'm all ears. I don't know how long I can stay like this."<p>

"Oh right. There isn't much, I don't know if you've been able to see me." What did you say to a ghost? To the ghost of your dead flat mate and friend? Sherlock, the man who would outlive god trying to get the last word, was somewhat speechless. Before he had done this, he knew so many things he would say should John turn out to be ok. But seeing him here, like this, baffled him.

"I have. I've spent my time looking at you and Harry. She's been doing very well, cleaned herself up good. But you, Sherlock. I'm worried." He leant forwards onto his hands and frowned, "Sherlock your not doing so good. You've been on the drugs again, smoking, taking on the dangerous cases that you shouldn't be doing on your own. I know your greiving, i've seen you crying. But you have to... move on, I guess."

"I can't. You don't know what it's like. You can see me, but I can't see you. It's killing me without you, John. I... I do these things becuase it either helps me forget my pain or because it reminds me of the things we did, the adrenaline of the chase and the pool." Sherlock's eyes were flitting over John's face and body, embedding his very being into his mind. SHerlock could never forget John, ever, but just in case.

"I don't care, I'm sorry. I do know what it's like, Sherlock. You were dead, for so long. But you weren't, you were looking out for me. It's killing _me_ - excuse the pun - watching you hurt yourself like this. Your a brilliant man, you should be so much more." He leaned back and swallowed, "I'll always be with you, you know that now. Can you at least try, just try, to get back to how you were with me. Talk to me, I can't always reply, but I'm there. I'll stay with you. Always." John was beggining to fade, flickering in and out of sight. Sherlock nodded hurriedly,

"I'll do it. I promise."

"Good." John smiled, "Remember, I can see you at all times if I like. I'll do everything I can to let you know I'm there."

"Ok, I miss you John."

"I miss you to." With that, John faded into nothingness, but SHerlock knew he was still there so he smiled at the chair and winked. He was happy, for once. He couldn't feel John or anything like that, but he trusted him. He knew that he was there, looking out for him. Forever. He walked into the kitchen, beaming like an idiot, and began humming.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four: The crime

"I don't think that's a good idea..."

"Oh shush John, your putting me off."

After the incredible incident which took place when Sherlock had used the ouji board for the first time, John's visit's had become a lot more frequent. Sometimes he just appeared with a look of surprise, as if he didn't know that he was materialising. Other times Sherlock took out the board to talk to him, but either way, life was a lot better than it had been without him. It had been a few weeks since the board experiment, Sherlock could hardly remember what it was like without John.

"No, really Sherlock. Don't do that!"

Sherlock dropped the old finger he'd swiped from the morgue into the vat of HCL**, **it began to errode immediately and the finger had soon withered away into smoky bone that Sherlock looked reluctant to touch.

"That... wasn't meant to happen."

John stood there covering his face with his hand, shaking his head slightly. "Do you ever listen to me?"

"Not really." Sherlock smirked. As he looked at John, John's figure began to blur slightly around the edges. Sherlock frowned. John looked down.

"Oh, i'll uh... see you later then." This was always an awkward moment for them. When John was there, it seemed like he was still alive. But when Sherlock actually watched him fade away into nothing, it reminded him that he really was dead. It upset him sometimes, watching him leave so suddenly. He seemed really unhappy to go - a restless spirit. Sherlock wanted nothing more than for him to be happy. He couldn't be happy in his current position. As he disappeared completely with a little wave, Sherlock turned back to his experiment. He knew John was still there, but all the prescene he felt when he could see John evaporated along with his image. He felt alone again, painfully alone.

"I'll just use a different chemical next time." He said, "I can't go wrong again."

He could almost hear John's exasperated sigh. He'd always disaproved of experiments involving dangerous chemicals. It was only normal that even in his death he'd worry.

**The Woods; Crime Scene 11.20am**

"Fifteen year old girl and her boyfriend found him," Lestrade explained, pointing to the mans corpse in the ditch, "Gory sight I know, but we don't know what weapon caused the injury or have any indication of who murdered him."

Sherlock crouched over the body, pushing long blades of grass out the way. Death's in the woods were often the best to investigate, footprints, blood splatters and weapons could easily be concealed by mud and leaves and it took the very best of Sherlock's ability to discover clues. This man had particularly nasty slashes across his bare throat and chest, as well as bruising around his genetailia and knife wounds to the inner thigh. His whole body was caked in mud and blood and he was beginning to smell. He had swollen to maybe twice his normal size, face mauled and chewed on by rats and wild animals, he was unrecognisable.

"Office worker, divorced, used to be in a gang or something similar but left it when he met his ex wife. Mid to late forty's... uh,"

"Sherlock, are you stuck?" Lestrade smiled.

"No, no. Well, yes. Just a bit."

"Don't worry, he's naked and you've given me a fair bit to work on."

_Well done, Sherlock. That was good, all things considered._

John was - as usual - stood right behind him, leaning over him to see the body. No one else could see him, otherwise they would have definatley said something the first time John had appeared at a crime scene. It seemed no one could hear him either, most of the time, Sherlock didn't exactly hear him. It seemed like his voice was talking to him in his head, John's mouth moved, but the words didn't seem to enter his ears. When Sherlock arrived home later that day and John appeared again, he questioned him about his behaviour at the crime scenes. "I have to do it," He shrugged, "Certain... people, in the other world forbid ghosts from revealing themselves to the living. It's kind of a one ghost per person kind of deal. Not a lot of ghosts go for it, as they miss so many people. With me, it's just you really."

Sherlock was touched, quite deeply. It took a lot to make him feel... anything. And the fact that John chose him to come back to meant an awful lot. Even thinking about it made him feel happy for a while.

"No problem Lestrade. When the body gets to the morgue, let me know. Can I just check the area for weapons?"

"We already have," Lestrade looked over to the forensics who were thouroughly checking the grass and bushes for anything sharp.

"They're looking for the wrong thing." Sherlock said, walking with Lestrade to join the forensics.

"They're looking for a knife, Sherlock."

"Yes exactly. On closer inspection I can see that those wounds were made with a sword."

"A _sword_?" Lestrade gasped.

"Yes, a sword. Do you ever listen?"

_Sherlock. _John warned from behind them.

"Knife wounds are often rough around the edges, where people have picked up a kitchen knife and just stabbed them. Even gangs nowadays use rough edged knives. Even when there is a smooth blade, it leaves a deeper dent when it enters and shallow when it leaves the skin. However his slashes appear to be completely even all the way through." Sherlock rolled his eyes at Lestrades simpleness. Obviously it was a sword.

"Ok, do you want me to tell them to look for a sword instead?"

"Yes that would be useful."

"Oi, Anderson! Tell your men to look for a sword!" Lestrade bellowed across the mud.

"A -"

"Yes! Just do it!" Lestrade began talking to Sherlock about what they had found so far that could be connected to the case in some way. "Purse, maybe the ex wifes, no ID though..."

Sherlock's mind began to drift away, as it often did when normal people started talking. Soon enough though, he found that his attention was required. They had reached the end of the crime scene tape and Lestrade wanted to ask him a few questions before he left.

"How did you know all that about the man?"

"I deduced it."

John sniggered from behind them and Sherlock smirked. "He had ink on his palm and fingers, ink from a printer mixed with the blue ink from his pen. His physique, or lack of, indicate a job where he is mostly seated. Office worker looking good. He has a tattoo on his side, it say's 'Emily', i'm sure you've noticed. But the name was surrounded by a large heart. His ex-wife. But there's traces and black blue and green ink underneath and around it, as if the heart has covered up another tattoo. Tattoo on his side... but unusual, none anywhere else so it's likely to make him part of a gang or group which use the tattoo to prove membership. It's covered up by the womans name so he either left it for her or shortly after their marrage."

Lestrade nodded and noted some of the information down, "Thank you Sherlock. Been very useful, as always."

"No problem, Gregg." He said with a smile. Lestrade grinned back and Sherlock turned to leave - John following suit right behind him. Just as he ducked under the crime tape, Lestrade grabbed his elbow.

"Just wanted to ask, um, how are you?"

"I'm fine." Sherlock frowned.

"But your not. You wouldn't even come to cases a few weeks ago. You were... emotionless."

"I'm a sociopath, Lestrade. It's-"

"No your not. I know your not. After John passed away, I've never seen anyone show as much emotion as you did. You were heartbroken Sherlock. I worried about you."

Sherlock said nothing, but stared at John over Lestrades shoulder. He was looking at the floor, hands stiff by his side.  
>"I didn't know how to comfort you, but you seem fine now. Almost as if it didn't happen. Your coping ok aren't you? Your not using again?"<p>

"No I'm not. At first I did," Sherlock admitted, "But I'm _fine._".

"Glad to hear it. Get home, i'll call you when the bodies safe for you to examine."

Sherlock got home quickly and John's form became solid looking and his voice was clear. "Is that true Sherlock? Were you heartbroken?"

Sherlock threw his coat and scarf over the door and sat on the sofa. "Yes." He answered honestly. "I'd never had anyone like you in my life. Ever. It was nice, and I was happy. And then..."

"I died."

"Yes." He stayed in silence and John moved to sit next to him on the sofa. He reached out his hand to touch Sherlocks arm, both men waited for the contact, but like the other times they'd tried to touch each other, nothing happened and John's arm passed right through Sherlock.

"I wish I could touch you." John whispered.

"You sound gay, John." Sherlock smiled.

"Shut up Sherlock. You know what I mean." Both men smiled at each other for a while, until John looked away with a cough.

"We were going to be with each other forever." Sherlock whispered.

"Now who sounds gay?" John chuckled. Sherlock chuckled back for a moment.

"Seriously though, we were, weren't we?"

John nodded, "I think so. I couldn't picture myself settling down with anyone because whenever you called or text, I'd come runnning with hesitation. It got me angry sometimes, i'll admit, but, you always came first."  
>"I'm sorry I took that life from you." Sherlock said. John snapped his gaze from the floor to look at him directly in the eyes.<p>

"No, Sherlock, don't be sorry for that. You saved my life, on numerous occasions. After the war, when I was invalid home, I didn't think that i'd have anyone in my life, at all." He smiled and laughed, "I'll be honest, you weren't exactly the person i was hoping i'd settle down with, but when I moved in here, I guess I knew that I would never live anywhere else. I was happy though, you made me... better."

They sat in comfortable silence for a minute until John swore. "Apparently i'm leaving now." He said quietly.

Sherlock looked at his figure and sure enough, John was beginning to disappear. He gave Sherlock his usual wave and vanished into thin air, like he always did. The life they were meant to have vanished with him.

**Ok, so this fic hasn't really had a plot up until this point. I read through it the other day and i was like, 'Ah, crumpets.' The dead bloke in this chapter is gonna become part of it probably, i need a case to focus this story on. So if your not enjoying the lack of plot and major angst so far, don't fear, the next chapters will be a lot more interesting xx thanks for reading! Review!**


	5. Chapter 5

**__**Chapter five; Molly and Moran

_**The Morgue - 6pm**_

Sherlock was leaning over the cold body on the slab. No John, or at least, no John that he could see. Molly was leaning slightly over Sherlock's shoulder, peering through the small rectangular magnifying glass - trying to see what Sherlock could see.

She remained baffled by his methods, always had been. As far as she could see, he was looking at a plain patch of skin on this mans arm. It was one of the only parts of him without a bruise or cut. Molly frowned as she tried to see anything incriminating in that small place that Sherlock was favouring, but as usual, there was nothing.

"Don't you want to look at the cuts on his neck?" She offered, backing away slightly as he straightened himslef and tucked away the magnifier.

"Why would I want to do that?" He mumbled, staring intently at the face of the dead man.

"Maybe there's a motive in the violence of the murderers actions?"

Sherlock wheeled around to face her, a look of geniue shock on his face.

"What?" Molly asked, feeling a little more than self concsious.

He shook his head, "Sometimes I forget your clever."

She didn't know whether to be pleased or slightly offended, but before she could say anything Sherlock spoke again.

"The violence of her actions indicates a revenge killing, for what, I'm unclear but i think it has something to do with the gang he used to be in."

"Sorry, _her?_"

"The groin of this man has been beated more savagely than any other part of his body. Men are always... squemish, about hurting that area of their body so its unlikely they would do it to another male. SInce the crotch was targeted, I can assume it was a past lover of this mans that did this to him."

"Ok," She said slowly, "And the gang?"

Sherlock quickly explained about the tatoo, and Molly nodded along, perfectly content to listen and not offer any hypothesis. When the morgue was quiet again for a minute, Molly looked carefully at the tatoo that Sherlock had shown her.

"Could it have been the woman on the tattoo? Emily?"

Sherlock shrugged, "If this man hadn't been killed with a sword, then I'd say definately. However, I got Mycroft to research this man and his family for me. She's a perfectly ordinary, boring, woman. She wouldn't know how to use a sword if a knight taught her how to."  
>Sherlock reached into his pockets and turned for the door, "I'm done here Molly, wheel him away if you like."<br>"Your leaving?" She couldn't hide the disapointment in her voice.  
>Sherlock smiled a little and span round to face her, "Thats what one does when he's finished for the day, is it not?"<p>

"Well, yes, but, I was wondering..."

"Yes."

"Oh, right of course, sor- What?"

"I said yes. I'd like to have coffee with you."

Coffee with Molly was... pleasent. They had little to talk about, bar the work and the morgue, and the recent case. But sherlock found that he was enjoying the company of someone he trusted wouldn't randomly disappear from sight. He loved his short moments with John, but he needed something definate, something he could understand. Two people, friends, sitting in a hospital cafeteria was definate. Molly tried small talk a little too many times for his liking, but Sherlock liked the look of admiration on her face when he stopped her talking to deduce the lives of everyone in the cafeteria.

He didn't mind having to go home when the awkward silence streched too long. He polietly declined Molly's invite back to hers - why she would want him in her house was a mystery to him - and called a cab home. When he walked into the kitchen and picked up a sandwhich that Mrs Hudson had put out for him, John materialised at the end of the table.

"NIce to see you." Sherlock greeted around a mouthful of peanut butter and jelly sandwhich.  
>"What are you playing at?" John spat, face red and posture straight. Sherlock frowned.<p>

"What do you mean?"

"With Molly, at Bartes. I saw you, drinking coffee with her!"

"Yes, it's a common occurance between friends." Sherlock couldn't see why John was getting so riled about this! It wasn't like it was important, Molly had helped him many times in the past. She didn't bore him and was actually quite intelligent. He could say and mean it when he called them friends. He'd been out for coffee with John lots of times and... Oh.

"John," Sherlock smirked, "Are you jealous?"

"What? No! Of course not, why would I be?"

"Well, you can't exactly accompany me everywhere like before. Maybe because I'm talking to Molly more, you feel like you are getting replaced."

"Oh god, Sherlock. No. Not at all." John's face softened, "It would be great for you if you got another partner, it really would. You wouldn't have to be alone then. I just meant that it's not-"

"You want me to leave you?" Sherlock interrupted, "Forget you and move on?"

"Your making it sound like we were together." John laughed.

"Shut up. Is that what you want? To be replaced?"

John sighed, "No, no I don't. At all. But it would help you move on, Sherlock. I know you want things to be like what they were before. But I'm dead! I can't be your blogger anymore. I can't be there all the time. If you found someone else to do these things with, you'd feel more normal. You could have a new John. you'd be happier."

"Is that what you think? I'd be happier without you?" John nodded briefly, "Not at all. I couldn't just replace you and think everything was ok. You know me, John. More than I know myself sometimes. I couldn't be like this with anyone else."

"Except Molly."

"Not even Molly. I do... respect her more than most others. But she's not you."

"She could be."

"She really couldn't." Sherlock corrected, taking another bite of the sandwich.

They sat in silence for a moment before John said, "Ok, fine. I don't want to leave you anyway."

"So we're agreed? I'm not _moving on_and your not vanishing permanently on me?"

"I'd never do that."

"Yes you would."

"Ok, if you found someone else to be... me, then yeah, after a while I'd leave you be so I wouldn't want what I couldn't have."

Sherlock nodded, "Don't do that though."

"I won't." John smiled, "Anyway, Molly thought that going for that coffee was a date, i was going to say that you probably shouldn't lead her on."

"I didn't know."

"Of course. Any luck finding the murderer? I saw you two leave the morgue, but I didn't see what was happening inside."

Sherlock explained the situation and John stood looking puzzled, "No one with a history of fencing or sword fighting then?"

"Not according to Mycroft. His records are as good as law. If they say no one knew how to fight, no one did."

"Could it have been a member of the gang he used to be in?"

"That's my next area of interest."

Footsteps sounded on the stairs, soft and slow; Mrs Hudson, come to bring Sherlock his last meal of the day. John was leaning on the wall when she walked in, holding a tray of steaming food. She passed right by John and into the kitchen. "Sherlock, dinner!"

"Mrs Hudson, I've just finished that sandwich you made me." He smiled warmly at his landlady. She put the tray of hot food in front of him and picked up the empty plate.

"One sandwich all day isn't good enough, you've got to put some meat on those bones! Your too thin." She patted his shoulder and left, humming the theme song to _One Foot In The Grave_. Sherlock called a thank you down the stairs after her and took a big mouthful of spaghetti and put the rest in the fridge. John peered past him to see into the fridge.

"No body parts, I hope."

Sherlock shook his head, "Not at the moment. But I want to do this experiment with eyeballs, the microwave one was horrendous. I'm assuming it was the head. I'm going to try-"

"No. No more food in the fridge."

"You don't eat any more." Sherlock grinned, then realised he'd just made a joke about John's death. Luckily, John didn't look hurt which was good. He just looked a little sad.

"Yeah, i guess so. I just don't want you to join me here."

Mycroft and Sherlock's glaring competetions had recently become a lot more frequent. Mycroft could no longer kidnap John whenever he pleased, and as a result of this had taken to kidnapping Sherlock. Of course Sherlock was never willing to go with whichever pretty girl or boy that Mycroft tried to tempt him with, so eventually he just made the so called pretty person cover sherlock's mouth with a drug fueled napkin to knock him out until he got to Mycroft.

Sherlock was close to breaking the steely glare towards his brother when mycroft broke it first. "You know why your here."

"Do I?" Sherlock muttered, leaning back in the leather armchair. This was mycrofts favourite haunt, _the diogenes club_, it said outside. The room they were in was unbearably plain. Decorated with books and pictures of people that didn't matter, chairs that looked elegent and comfy but felt hard and painful against every curve. Mycroft of course, sat on his own tall backed brown chair with his legs crossed, hands clasped and looking more authorative than anyone at scotland yard. Sherlock was trying hard not to fidget in his seat.

"The murder of Joesph Granger. The ex gang, ex husband, revenge victim."

"What about him?" Sherlock asked, staring back into the eyes of one of the uglier portraits on the wall.

"I've found out something you might like."

"I doubt it."

"Moriarty was leader of the gang he used to be in."

"That doens't surprise me," Sherlock said, wiping the smug grin instantly off of Mycroft's face, "He's dead. Why should I care?"

"Because a certain Sebastian Moran has taken over. He's hunting down everyone who left the gang in the past five years."

Sebastian. Moriarty's favourite sniper, his go to man, the one person SHerlock had failed to kill during his three year 'I'm dead' stunt. He gulped.

"Care now?" Mycroft handed him a small glass of whiskey. Sherlock downed it in one.

"How many people left this gang?"

"Almost a hundred."

Sherlock slumped in his seat, "A hundred. How many are dead?"

"In the past two days, including our man, almost twenty have been hunted down and brutally killed. All with swords or katana's."

"Katana's? Moran's hiring japanese assasins?"

"Not that we know of. None of those under survellience have entered the country or acted up at all."

Sherlock steepled his hands under his chin and sat thinking for a few moments. If Sebastgian was behind this then there was a serious problem. He'd been tricky, trying to kill him had failed miserably, and their last meeting had not been a pleasent one. Moran blamed Sherlock for Moriarty's death. He was unswervingly loyal to his master, even though his master was dead. He had vowed death on Sherlock. No burning, no destroying his repuatation, just straight out death. Moran would find out sooner or later that Sherlock was investiagting the murders and find him. And kill him.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six - The Only One In The World**

**Scotland Yard - Lunchtime**

"I thought you'd dealt with all Moriarty's people when you died for three years." Lestrade took a bite of his donut, a sip of his coffee then put his hands behind his head, questioning Sherlock with his eyes. His feet were up on the desk, one foot tapping obnoxiously to a song that was stuck in his head.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "You know full well that I can't kill every single assasin out there."

John was lounging in the background, thinking intensely about the situation. He had appeared shortly after Sherlock returned to his flat. It took less than five minutes to explain the situation. John had managed to stay for that time, as well as through the taxi ride to Scotland Yard. He was now witnessing the conversation between Lestrade and Sherlock with a thoughtful and worried expression.

"Maybe not every assasin, but surely this Moran person would be your first target? Especially if he's as dangerous as you say."

"He's just as cunning as Moriarty," Sherlock explained patiently, "He can't be found unless he wants to be."

Lestrade frowned and sat properly at his desk. "So what makes you think we can catch him?"

"Your my last hope."

_I'm sure it'll all go fine._ Said John's mental voice, _Lestrade will help you with whatever you need._

Sherlock couldn't reply, as talking to himself in the back of a taxi had gotten him into trouble on various occasions. Instead, he just nodded slightly.

_You need to calm down. Sebastian might not even know your involved. _He left an unspoken yet on the end of that sentance. Moran had left those bodies somewhere they'd be found, he knew all about Sherlock's association with the police force. If he didn't already know that Sherlock knew what was happening, then it would be a matter of hours before he did.

* * *

><p>John said nothing more throughout the ride, to which Sherlock was grateful. He needed to think, he almost wished John would just vanish like he did. Even his presence was distracting. When they arrived back at the flat, the silence was broken the moment they were through the door.<p>

"Sherlock, don't do anything irrational."

"Like what?"

"I don't know, throw yourself off a building?" John loved throwing that one back in his face.

Sherlock took the stairs two at a time and barged into the flat and reached for a file hidden on his bookshelves. "This is Moran's file. I accquired it when I was... away. I stole it from Moriarty's headquarters. It explains all his habits, his family - or what's left of it - and every detail that Moriarty deemed important." He flicked quickly through the file, stopping occasionaly to read an article that caught his eye.

"Do you think it'll hint at his location?" John asked, slumping into his chair.

Sherlock shook his head, "No. I don't."

"So why-?"

"I need to know everything, John!" Sherlock shouted, shaking. "I'm in a peril position. This time I won't be able to fake death. I have to get the upper hand."

John stayed silent for a few moments. After a while, the quiet bothered him. "You know, I only have a limited time in this state. It would be nice for you to talk to me."

"About what?" Sherlock muttered, eyes darting over the page furiously.

"This. I can help."

"How?"

"I can..." John's mind threw up a blank. What could he do? There was next to nothing he could've done had he been alive. Dead, it was impossible to find him anything.

Sherlock offered no help. He just stood there, already engrossed in the silence. John sighed. If only he knew where Moran was, he could haunt the location, feedback to Sherlock about what he was up to. An invisible spy was perfect, especially for this kind of job. John knew it was a kill or be killed situation for Sherlock. If only he could spy on Moran. He attempted to voice this to Sherlock.

"Just find out where he is."

"I need to know everything."

"No you don't."

Sherlock shut the file and shot an aggravated look towards John. "I don't think you quite comprhend the situation."

John then quickly explained what he'd do, if Sherlock could find out where he was. For a while, Sherlock seemed to like the plan, a lot. He was nodding along, offering suggestions and improvments. But when John had finished, Sherlock looked somewhat defeated.

"How am I meant to find him?"

"Your brother has one of the most powerful positions in England. He found me using surviellance camera's and phone booths. He knows what Sebastian looks like. I'm sure he's already looking." John knew about Sherlock's discontent when it came to his brother. He liked doing things alone, or at least, with as little input from Mycroft as possible. However, Sherlock had explained that Mycroft had been the one to tell him about Moran's involvement in the recent murders. Maybe this had softened his opinion of his brother just enough. "It's worth a shot."

"I'm sure he is looking, yes. But why would he tell me where he was, should he find him? He always told you." John assumed he imagined the breif look of jealousy that flashed through Sherlock's eyes at that statment and he shrugged.

"Your his brother, Sherlock. You may hate each other - and I don't doubt that you do - but he knows that Sebastian will kill you. He won't want you dead. Proper dead."

Sherlock went into the kitchen to make a cup of coffee - he knew he wouldn't be able to sleep tonight. "Even if Mycroft does agree to help me, how will I explain how I know all the information that you'll be recieving for me? I can't exactly tell him that your a ghost and are spying on him for me."

At some point during this breif monolouge, John had vanished. Sherlock knew he'd still be there, sitting in his chair, looking at him make coffee and wishing there was more he could do to help.

Sherlock drummed his fingers on the counter while waiting for the kettle to boil. He'd always been comfortable in silence. He'd never really had anyone to talk to. But when he was with John, conversation came easy. Whether it was John mocking him over his latest crazy experiment, or Sherlock confiding in John, making John explain about certain feelings and why people thought that way. Apart from maybe six cases, Sherlock and John had never really argued. It was wonderful, being sociable with someone who understood him.

Now, for the first time in his life, Sherlock felt lonely. It wasn't that he didn't like being alone. He did, he just didn't like the fact that he wasn't alone, yet he couldn't have a conversation. His only friend was still with him, in the flat, less than ten steps away. Yet they couldn't talk, couldn't bicker like they did, couldn't laugh and joke about stupid games that John made them play. _No more cluedo_ Sherlock thought with a sad sigh.

It was probably the second time that Sherlock had truely been scared. He'd almost died at Moriarty's hands. Sebastian was just as good. Not quite as smart, but an awful good sniper and fighter. He had a lot of dangerous, aggresive people under his power now. People that Sherlock wouldn't suspect. And he had no one to comfort him anymore.

The sorrow he'd felt when John first died began seeping back into his heart and head. He resisted the urge to turn to the drugs he'd hidden in his room, knowing that John could still see him. Or could he? Maybe he'd gone to check on Harry. There was no way to know.

If being a ghost was hard for John, it was nothing compared to the lonliness of the only person who could see him. The only one in the world.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N Warning! Contains mild spoilers for Reichenbach. I do mean mild, and you probably all know what happens anyway. But you know, just in case.**

**Chapter seven - No new leads?**

**5am**

Sherlock was crudely awoken by a shrill ringing close to his ear. He had fallen asleep on the desk in the living while re-reading Moran's file for the fifth time. Sherlock snorted and blindly reached for the phone which had rudely awoken him. His eyes stayed closed and his forehead stayed pressed firmly against the wood. He brought the phone to his ear with a grunt for greeting.

"It's Lestrade."

"Have you found him?" Sherlock asked quietly, sitting up and arching his neck. He was stiff and his back and neck ached. He made a mental note never to fall asleep like this again. It wasn't the first time he'd told himself this.

"Well, no, not yet. But Anderson-"

"No."

"Sorry?"

Sherlock ran a hand through the tangled mop that was his hair. His fingers caught on the normally silky curls and he decided to have a shower as soon as the opportunity arose. "I said no. Anderson is forensics. Why would he have any indication of Moran's whereabouts? He barely knows his own wives name."

Lestrade sighed; Sherlock could almost picture his exact movements. Running his hand over his face and pressing his fingers into his eyes before shaking his head. "Anderson's not as stupid as you'd like to think Sherlock. Anyway, he and his forensics team discovered blood at a crime scene earlier. It matches that of Charles McCarthy, his picture matches the picture of Moran that your brother showed us. It's a given that Charles is an alias."

Whilst Lestrade sounded pleased with himself and his team, Sherlock felt nothing but doubt. The dawn light was creeping in through the windows and a cold breeze made him shiver. It wasn't going to be a pleasant day. "Moran worked very closely with Moriarty. He's smart, he'll have a unique mind – Moriarty gets bored of ordinary people." Sherlock snarled at the term 'ordinary'. Moriarty had once called him just that. "He never does the work by himself, much like Moriarty in that way. He's a rifle man; shoot's them from a distance when an assassin can't be hired. He's hired someone in each of the previous murders, why now would he get involved himself, in such close range that he got blood on the floor? If there was blood there, it's because he wanted it there. Probably to let us know that he knew what we were doing."

Lestrade was silent for a moment, Sherlock could practically hear the average sixzed cogs in his head turning. "So you think he knows?"

"Obviously. Why else would he have left blood there, in plain enough sight that Anderson would find it?"

"Sherlock."

"You have to let me look at that blood sample. Let me into Bartes lab, just let me take a look at it."

"When have you ever used my permission to get into Bartes?"

Sherlock took this as a solid yes and hung up. He put the phone down and stood up, stretching like a cat to ease some of the tension in his back and neck. It was only then that he noticed John was there.

"Morning Doctor." Sherlock yawned, the bottom of his crumpled shirt rose up over his stomach as he stood on tiptoes with his arms in the air. "Got any advice on how to get rid of morning aches?"

"If you were serious I'd answer that." John smiled, "What was that about? I tuned it about the time you said 'probably to let us know that he knew what we were doing.' I'm guessing Sebastian has something to do with this?"

"Not something, everything." Sherlock grinned, "He's playing a game, John. Just like Moriarty."

"Oh no, no. I've seen that look before. Sherlock, last time you and Moriarty played, he ended up shooting himself in the head, you jumped off a building and feigned death for three years, so excuse me if I don't like that look of excitement on your face."

"I'm not excited!"

"Yes you are. And that's the problem. Stop it, right now."

Sherlock saw the look of genuine concern on John's face and smoothed his grin into his usual stone features. "You coming?"

"To Bartes? Sure."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

_You need to break open the cell membranes of the white blood cells with detergent. _John's voice came from a short distance behind Sherlock. He turned to look behind him and saw John seated on the counter about three steps back. Molly was in the lab with them, so Sherlock couldn't exactly talk back to John. He instead faced back to his petri dish of blood and looked to Molly, who had come along to help – and maybe, just _maybe_ secure another date with Sherlock.

"Got any detergent?" He asked her curiously.

She nodded, "I'll just go get some." She turned away for a second before spinning back, "Sorry, um, what are you going to use it for?"

"I'm extracting DNA."

"Won't the police already have done that?"

"I'm sure they missed something."

Without answering back, she walked out the room to collect some detergents.

"Probably best not to talk when she's in here." Sherlock said to John.

"I was bored and you two seemed to be talking more than getting work done. I thought I'd push you in the right direction, get you started."

"Appreciated."

Molly came back in holding a see through small bottle with a red lid and some pipettes. She handed them over to Sherlock and smiled when he said thanks.

The rest of the extraction went smoothly, the enzymes did their job and the only thing that went wrong with the final stages was when they feared they had ran out of ethanol. Sherlock ran the DNA through a scanner and just as Lestrade had said, came up with a man called Charles McCarthy. He leaned back into his chair and frowned. Molly came over to stand next to him and peer at the little screen.

"Is this what you were hoping for?"

"No. Not at all." He sighed, "Just an alias." He steepled his hands under his chin and risked a glance at John, who was staring intently at the image of Sebastian.

_But this is definitely him. Why would he create an alias at all? If he ever got caught, they'd still have him, just under a different name. Why not just say, 'Oh my names Sebastian Moran, I'm a crazy bastard who was hired to shoot John Watson, remember him? Great bloke.'_

Sherlock smirked as John waffled and pretended that his quick chuckle was a laugh.

As he began to clear away the stuff and help Molly take the stuff back into the laboratory's storage unit, her steps slowed and she bit her lip.

"What is it?"

"Nothing," She breathed, "Don't worry, it doesn't matter."

"Of course it does, it's you." He bit his tongue, instantly regretting his choice of words. John had told him not to lead Molly on. If what he had just said didn't sound like a flirt to her, there must be something wrong with her hearing. It gave her confidance to speak though and Sherlock seriously regretted asking what the matter was at all.

"Will you go out with me, this Friday? Grab a drink, maybe a meal?" She looked so painfully hopeful and expectant, but also prepared for a fall. She was expecting him to say no and was waiting for that rejection – already her face was set in the look that said 'I'm sad but not going to show it.' So how could Sherlock refuse? After everything she'd done for him, to see her looking miserable but fighting it, he felt sorry for her.

"Sure. Meet at mine, seven?"

The look of joy on her voice made the comment bearable, he liked seeing her happy. It was nice. She'd had too much heartbreak over the last few years. Most of it his fault. Even Moriarty's fake relationship with her was because of him.

As they put everything back in it's proper place and talked about nothing in particular, the security camera on the wall span and jerked until it found it's right position. It looked directly at them, daring them to do something. Sebastian Moran watched from the other end, watched his enemy being normal, _ordinary._ Moriarty had warned him about this, that Sherlock was becoming too normal and boring. He smiled, a shark staring at the baby seal he was soon to devour. And that feast would come soon, his men were already outside the building, preparing to pounce. Maybe he'd ask them to take the little Molly girl too, what fun he could have with that pretty little face. She reminded him of a mouse, cute, small, fragile. He wanted to see what he'd have to do to make her sqeak. First, get Sherlock. The message was still embedded in his brain. Two, beat him half to death then bring him to him. Three, slow torture, knives, fire, or something quick? Chainsaw? Or was torture worth it? Maybe a gun to the head would suffice. What would really hurt….

He shivered just thinking about it.

**A/N. Yeah so my science reference didn't go too well, I looked up how they extracted DNA and everything, but I kinda needed to see it to understand how it really worked. So I made up the method a little… sorry if you know how it's done properly and are thoroughly offended by my offhanded manner at which I portrayed it. **

**This fic wasn't moving quickly enough for me, so I thought I'd get dear Seb involved early. Also really enjoying playing with Molly's heart… it's painfully enjoyable. But I'm stuck! Should I get her and Sherlock together in the near future or keep them as friends? PM me what you'd like to see, please! Oh, and review!**

**xx**


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight: Sebastian.**

When Sherlock left Bartes, Moran watched excitedly. His men were there, ready to attack, _and cue__the bloodshed_ he thought grimly as he watched Sherlock throw on his too long coat. But nothing happened. No one jumped from behind cars, out the alley, off low roofs, no one. Sherlock simply walked down the street and pulled out his phone, texting as normal.

"What…" Sebastian leaned back and began slowly spinning in the office chair. Using security camera's he tracked Sherlock home. He lost him for a moment when he climbed into a cab, but watched him enter his flat with not a single scratch. Blood boiled to his face and he slammed his clenched fist onto the desk.

"What have I got to do to get results? How did he do it?" By 'he', he clearly meant Moriarty. God he missed him sometimes. Why did that bastard have to shoot himself? Leave Moran alone and in control. With no warning! Sebastian breathed, clenching and unclenching his fist. He couldn't get angry now, he'd wait. Since the men he'd hired to hurt Sherlock had miserably failed in their task, he'd do something about it himself. He smirked and laughed as he span around and around, turning off all the security cameras as he did so. The dead guard on the floor would be found just before midnight when his shift ended. The cameras would stay off until then; he had until midnight to act.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

"You've got a _date_ with Molly? Are you mad? Didn't you listen to me?" John threw his arms up in exasperation and walked out the kitchen. Sherlock followed, brow furrowed.

"I couldn't say no! Everything she's done, I can't just…"

"Yes you can. You never care about anyone Sherlock. You never have, what's all this about? Really?"

"I care about you." Sherlock said quietly, "And Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, and Molly. She's a friend, John."

"I thought you didn't have friends. Just one."

Sherlock had nothing to say. He couldn't explain himself, he didn't know how! He didn't like… feeling. In fact it was worse than feeling nothing. He'd often wondered if there was something wrong with him, for not caring all the time. But now, having so many feelings all at once almost hurt. Mycroft had been so right, caring wasn't an advantage. If he hadn't cared when John died, he never would have turned to drink, drugs and that damned Ouija board. He could have just moved on, plain and simple. He wouldn't be teasing Molly, leading her on accidently on purpose. He just didn't know how to be human. And now it was making John mad.

"Sherlock, call of the date. Now." John frowned as if scolding a child.

"But Molly,"

"Do it. She doesn't deserve to be treated like this. Let her find a man who actually loves her, so she can get over you."

Sherlock nodded, it would break her heart though, and she'd act fine when she wasn't. What would he say? What would be his reason for calling this off so suddenly? He looked at the clock, 5pm. She'd be here in two hours. Maybe she was just starting to get ready, picking out the dress and the makeup; he could picture her so vividly. He dialled her number and waited.

"Hello? Sherlock?" Her blustered voice greeted, just finished jogging, by the sounds of things. Maybe she'd gone out just to do a quick tone up before their 'date.'

"Molly, I'm going to have to cancel."

There was a long pause.

"Oh. Ok. Why?" There it was. Trying to show that she didn't care when actually it was ripping her inside. Sherlock winced.

"It's Mrs Hudson," He lied, "She's sick. I need to take care of her."

"Oh!" Molly didn't sound fake this time, she bought the smooth lie easily, "That's fine! Do you want me to come over? Maybe I can help out?"

"No, no that's ok. I don't want you catching whatever she has." Dammit, it sounded like he cared too much again.

"That's… nice of you, actually. Thank you. I'll see you soon?"

"Yes. Sorry Molly." He hung up and threw the phone onto the sofa. John had disappeared while he'd been on the phone, but he'd still be there, making sure that Sherlock did as he was asked. "Happy?" He asked invisible john. He could almost see the smile and the nod. He reached up to his hair, definitely time for that shower.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Ten to eleven. Dark, cold, raining like there was no tomorrow. It dripped into his eyes, sunk into his coat, socks, gloves, numbed his fingers and toes. He slipped a hand into his pocket, the knife was there. He'd nicked himself enough times on that blade to know that it was sharp enough. He stared up at the warm lights of 221b Baker Street. A silhouette kept passing by the window, Sherlock. Playing his violin. The sweet sounds echoed lightly into the night, and Sebastian could hear them from where he was sat; leaning against the electric box across the road. There was no traffic this time of night, the odd taxi drove past every five minutes or so but that was it. The houses either side of 221 were dark, lights off and no one home. Thank the heavens for small mercies; no one would hear Sherlock screaming. He didn't want the body found for at least a week, it would give such a scare to that mind numbingly dull detective inspector Sherlock seemed to respect so much.

Five to eleven. That song he was playing on the violin must be long; he'd not stopped for a good ten minutes. Sebastian tapped his fingers impatiently. Can't be long now, everyone had to sleep at some point. Even the great Sherlock Holmes couldn't stay up much later than this? Sebastian sincerely hoped he was in bed before midnight. The body of the guard would be found then, they'd turn on the cameras, call the police, find the fingerprints and they'd have him within hours. He needed Sherlock to sleep… the last murder before he was locked away.

Sherlock gave one last graceful sweep of the bow on the violin pressed it to his chest to bow. To who? He was facing away from Sebastian, his back to the window. He'd seen the video of Sherlock's flat that Moriarty had secretly filmed; he knew that Sherlock was facing his armchairs. Did he have company? That would put a bit of a downer on his plans, who would he kill first? Because they'd both have to die obviously. Seb watched for a few more minutes, there was definitely someone there. Sherlock was leaning on the window, shrugging and gesturing, clearly having a conversation with someone. Someone who was making him laugh… no one made this man laugh, no one ever had apart from that bloody army doctor, John Watson. He had a good idea of who Sherlock spoke to; that housekeeper he almost killed someone for, a mother figure more than a funny friend. Lestrade? No, there wasn't a strong enough friendship there for Sherlock to have him over. It wouldn't be Molly, for some reason he hadn't gone on that date with her. Cancelled like the heartless bastard he is probably. She hadn't turned up at the flat at all. So who was it?

Twenty two minutes past midnight. Sherlock stretched and shook his head and walked away from the window after drawing the curtains. Sebastian smiled as the lights turned off. He waited five minutes but no one came out the flat. Whoever it was, they were still in there. An overnight visitor? Must be someone pretty special. He pulled out the knife and walked towards the door. He slotted the knife in the gap between the door and the wall and pulled, twisted and turned it until there was a satisfying click. The door popped silently open. Moran walked in and descended up the stairs.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

It was ten to eleven, and Sherlock had taken out his violin to practise. Again. Sherlock loved playing his violin of a night, he always had. Even when Mummy and Mycroft complained of the noise after it had woken them up, he'd keep playing with a smile on his face.

John loved watching him like this, it was so different, to see the normally angry, stroppy and stiff person lose all that restraint. He was still elegant and somewhat arrogant when he played, but he looked so happy and normal. This time, John had requested a song. It was one that Sherlock had played him a long time ago, after a particularly nasty case. John couldn't sleep and Sherlock had played him the violin to calm him down. John also knew how strange that was. _No wonder people talk._

When Sherlock finished, he bowed as he always did and they began talking. Just like the old days. It was about the war, Sherlock enjoyed listening to stories about what happened to John when he was in Afghanistan. And it helped John too; it was easier than talking to his therapist about it - not that he could now anyway. It was interesting to watch Sherlock's reactions. Anger whenever John said someone hurt him, the rolling eyes and slightly upturned lips when he described a failed tactic or an idiotic enemy. But it was the laughter, the deep voice suddenly losing all its aggression and becoming joyous, it changed his whole face.

When Sherlock declared somewhat suddenly that he was going to bed, John hadn't disappeared. He didn't need to sleep, what with being a ghost and all, so he said he'd just hang out at the flat until he popped away. He didn't tell Sherlock where he went when he wasn't around. He didn't just stay in the flat or with Harry when Sherlock couldn't see him. He went somewhere... different. Not better, because nothing could beat being with the real Sherlock Holmes. But heaven was pretty close. He was in the flat there too, but it was tidy, no experiments, and Sherlock was there, deducting as he did. But none of it was real, which annoyed John sometimes. True he could change it and make it perfect, maybe throw in Lara Pulver (he'd had such a crush on her when he was younger), but he never did. Because he wanted to stay with the real Sherlock and the real world as much as possible. Heaven wasn't heaven because what he really wanted was down here.

There was a noise downstairs, a clicking. John stood up and walked to the door, then peered down the stairs into the darkness. There was definitely someone there; they closed the door a little too gently, obviously not wanting to be noticed. They began up the stairs, taking one every three seconds, going up silently. John gasped and cursed a burglar! Great! He ran into Sherlock's room and began shouting.

"Sherlock! Wake up! Oi! There's a burglar!"

Sherlock jolted awake, he was naked, as he usually slept. John didn't care; he'd had to wake him many times before when one of his experiments had spontaneously combusted in the night. "Burglar! In the flat!"

Sherlock's eyes widened and he reached out and grabbed a grey top and trousers from his dresser. He put his finger to his lips. John sighed. "Like they can hear me."

"Good point." Sherlock mouthed. The door to the bedroom swung open, a man stood there, dripping wet from the rain and holding a rather sharp looking knife. Sherlock had dropped to the floor and hidden under the bed the moment the door opened. John knew that he was looking for the gun he kept under there. The man's features weren't clear in the almost darkness but John felt a jolt of recognition.

"Sherlock it's him." He gulped, "its Moran." John crouched down and looked at Sherlock under the bed. It may have been the light, but he looked even paler than normal, and he was shaking. John stood up and reached out, anger fuelling his actions. He was shocked when his hand connected with Moran's arm. Moran gasped and moved out the room, feeling uneasy. The door shut and John heard him exploring the apartment.

"I... touched him. Sherlock, I did."

"I saw," Sherlock whispered, "We'll figure out how that happened at a later time."

John nodded, mind reeling. Sherlock army crawled out the bed and gently opened the door. John walked straight through it. "He's gone, upstairs, I imagine. Checking out my room. He probably thinks your there."

Sherlock opened it fully and John ran ahead to check if he was right. There was no one in the room, no one. It was freezing and dusty, he'd ask Sherlock to clean it tomorrow. But if Sebastian wasn't up here then...

"Sherlock!"

xxxx

**Don't** **forget to review! xx**


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine; Whispers in the dark**

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock heard John's shout from upstairs and understood what it meant immediately. That Moran wasn't up there. He was still down here, probably watching him, hiding in the shadows. Sherlock was holding his gun tightly, spinning round rapidly on the spot, trying to spot even the slightest movements. Nothing. John came thudding down the stairs, clearly not needing to worry about the noise he made. Only Sherlock could hear any noise that John made. A benefit in a time like this.

"I'll look around the flat," John said as he walked past. Sherlock couldn't even see him the darkness was so thorough. But if he couldn't see John – or anything else for that matter – how could Moran see him? He'd stay silent. Completely, utterly silent…

He focused his breathing, closed his eyes then opened them slowly, trying to force them to adjust to the light. There… now he was concentrating he could hear a muffled, unsteady breathing from behind his armchair. He smiled.

"I know where he is." John whispered in his ear. "Behind your chair." Sherlock couldn't exactly tell him that he already knew this. So he nodded, hoped John could see better than he could and moved slowly and quietly towards the sofa; wedging himself between the table and the couch, he now had the table as a weapon in front of him. He'd feel if Moran knocked it, then send the table flying – preferably into his crotch.

"I know you're here, Sherlock. I can smell you…" Moran's strangely soothing voice whispered in the darkness and Sherlock smiled. Obviously he had no idea that Sherlock knew where he was.

"I highly doubt that you can _smell_ me, Sebastian. I had a shower." Sherlock spoke back confidently.

_What are you doing? _Came John's now mental voice, _don't annoy him, for __god's__ sake!_

"That's what I mean, you smell all fresh and clean, soapy and manly. Is it your old boyfriend's gel you use? Is it John's? It is, isn't it? You just can't get enough of him can you?"

Sherlock said nothing, ignoring the taunt.

"Oh, keeping quiet are you? I'll find you without using your voice, you know I will. All I have to do is turn on the lights." Sherlock heard him stand up and brush past the armchair. "I still use Moriarty's gel, if you're wondering. And his shampoo. He died because of you, Sherlock. And I miss him so much…" He was walking now, lightly, taking one step every five or so seconds. He wasn't rushing; he didn't want to be caught. "I bet you wear John's clothes too, wrap his jumpers around yourself. Do you wank over him, Sherlock? Do you please yourself while shouting his name?" Moran laughed and Sherlock gripped tightly on the gun, he was almost smack in front of the table now, he must be. Just a few more seconds and Sherlock would kick, sending the glass table straight into him, but not yet.

_Ignore him, Sherlock. Focus. Concentrate! _Sherlock nodded again, trying to keep his anger hidden, very deep, but soon it would come out. No one insulted John like that, demeaned him like that. The gun in his hand felt heavy, it wanted to be used.

"I know you do, you must. Just like I do over Moriarty. Oh but you two were never together were you? He was always straight, fucking other woman. I bet you wished you'd fucked him now, don't you? Long and hard, you know he would've liked it rough." Sherlock couldn't hold back the growl, harsh and threatening. Moran just chuckled again. "Your little _pet._" This came from right next to Sherlock's ear, he gasped and jumped out the way, feeling something sharp slice deep into his shoulder. He roared in pain and fell from the sofa. He felt the painful bite of the knife again on his leg as he stumbled to his feet towards the light switch.

The blinding light stunned both men for a moment, eyes blurring uncontrollably as they tripped and swayed against the brightness.

_Sherlock! _John shouted. He ran forwards and tackled Moran to the ground. It took Sherlock a moment to process this, but it had happened. His mind played it again in slow motion. John barrelled forwards, slightly crouched with out stretched arms, _wrapped them around Moran's waist and pushed him to the floor. _Moran yelled in shock and John stood up, gasping and looking thoroughly baffled.

"What the hell did I just do?" He asked Sherlock. Moran scrambled off the floor and pointed the knife towards John.

"He's… dead! What… Why can I?"

"You can see me?" John panted.

Moran nodded and anger then replaced the initial shock. He screamed and lunged with the knife, intending to stab John, who then promptly disappeared from sight. Sherlock had time to shout his name once in shock before Moran came charging at him with the knife.

He ducked as Moran's arm swung towards his head, he elbowed him in the ribs and heard a satisfying crack. Moran yelped and clutched at his side. "Bastard!" His movements became wild. The knife flashed dangerously close to his face, his chest, his side, but Sherlock managed to dodge them all. Moran was un co-ordinated, blinded by his need for revenge and hatred. It looked almost like he was sobbing; red faced, blotchy cheeks. It almost brought pity to Sherlock, but it was a little hard for him to feel like that when he was currently avoiding being stabbed.

"You'll pay, Sherlock Holmes! I'll kill you!" The fight was littered with snappy comments such as this, and they did their job in putting Sherlock off. Whenever Moran shouted, he nicked Sherlock. Now Sherlock was bleeding lightly from various wounds to his upper arms and stomach.

Moran pulled back and grunted, plunging the knife into Sherlock's bicep. He yelled, kicked at Moran's knee and forced him to the floor. The knife had gone in deep, and the sudden shock to the knee had caused Moran to let go of the blade. It had got stuck in Sherlock's arm. He pulled it out, blood gushed along with it, the grey t-shirt he was wearing was covered, black and red stains hid all the real colour.

"You're going to die, Sherlock." Moran moaned from the floor, massaging what seemed to be a sprained ankle, "Maybe not by my hands, but someone out there will kill you for what you did."

He closed his eyes, Sherlock raised the knife and threw it down, straight into the floor boards next to Moran's head. "I'm not killing you with your own weapon." Sherlock said, "I've got something more inventive for you."

The gasp that came out of Moran's mouth, the look of horror in his eyes, the trembling limbs, it made Sherlock feel powerful. This was what Sally had been on about all those years ago – _one day we'll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one that put it there._ It was unfortunate that it had to be like this, unlucky and unfair. But what else could he do? It was kill Moran, or Moran kills him. If he could keep it from the police then he'd be fine, but they'd find out. Seb's people weren't stupid. They probably already phoned Scotland yard and told them. They'd be here soon…

Sherlock shook all thoughts out of head and lifted Moran up, pushing him roughly down into the little wooden chair John used to sit on when he blogged. It felt like an insult putting him there, but he wouldn't get any more blood on the carpet – Mrs Hudson would kill him.

_Sherlock, you don't have to do this. _John was back, standing just behind him. Moran couldn't see him this time, it was clear by the look on his face.

"Yes I do." Sherlock said aloud. Sebastian twitched and look confused, Sherlock punched him hard in the jaw, knocking him unconscious.

"You don't, kill him by all means, I'd have it no other way. But don't… torture him, Sherlock. It's not your style."

"It could be."

"It really couldn't." John sighed, "Pick up your gun, shoot him and leave it at that. Please."

The gun… Sherlock had almost forgotten about it. It must have slipped from his grasp when Moran had scared him off the sofa. He looked at it and went over to pick it up. It almost shot out his grasp, blood made his fingers sticky and his grip wasn't firm. This would be hard to aim. The blood reminded him of the wound on his arm, steadily throbbing, bleeding heavily. It was adrenaline keeping him awake now, after the buzz had worn off, he'd pass out. How long would it be until Mrs Hudson found him…

"Now, Sherlock. When he wakes up, he'll kill you."

Sherlock faced his enemy and raised the gun. It was the same position he had pulled years before, when at the pool with Moriarty. He even felt the same, tingling with anticipation and worry – for his life and john's. It seemed strange to worry about John now, but he supposed when you cared about someone, they were always in some kind of danger. Sherlock pulled once on the trigger and watched as the limp and bleeding body of Sebastian Moran fell in a heap to the floor. He lifted him quickly and threw him out the same window he'd once thrown an American CIA agent. It was on Mrs Hudson's bins, and the bin men came tomorrow. The body would be found two years from now, on a dump somewhere. Sherlock would already have cleared his name by then.

Moran was dead, so why didn't he feel calm? It was over, well and truly. As far as he knew, there was not another heir to Moriarty's throne, that was it. But the criminal web was still being spun, he supposed it would only be a matter of time before a new spider took control of its threads.

But for now, he was safe.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

**It's almost over... just one chapter left! Keep reviewing! x**


	10. Chapter 10  The Final Goodbyes

**Chapter Ten; Final Goodbyes**

Moran was dead. Lestrade wasn't going to arrest him for murder and Mrs Hudson had lovingly restocked the fridge. But John hadn't come by in a week.

It was unusual for him to be gone more than two days in a row. Sometimes it was harder for him to materialise, it took a lot of effort and he ended up borrowing Sherlock's energy just to manifest. It was times like these that Sherlock remembered that his friend was dead. A ghost and nothing more.

When he was alone like this, he liked to think. It was quiet and peaceful and no one interrupted him anymore. But while he used to think about things like _how much hydrochloric acid can I put on that eyeball until it dissolve_ he now thought about John. More specifically, ghost John. How was it even possible that he was here, in plain sight but only to Sherlock? Where did he go when he wasn't around? Was it heaven, hell, limbo? Sherlock had never had the guts to ask. Asking about John's life in death would make him seem more like a ghost than a friend that just happened to disappear. This is how Sherlock had been referring to him anyway. It wasn't… comfortable. Knowing that his best friend was a ghost. He didn't want to make it any more concrete by asking unnecessary questions. But should he?

John wasn't around – that Sherlock could tell anyway – and Sherlock had a headache. Paracetamol wouldn't do anything for him, it never did. So instead Sherlock reached for the one thing that he knew helped. His drugs. Powder this time; he didn't feel like piercing his skin again, too many marks raised too many questions.

He poured the powdered white onto his wrist in a line and sighed before snorting the whole lot. He shook his head, frowned and twitched his nose. It was always so horrible this part, it almost made the whole thing not worthwhile. Then his brain began to shut down, one thought at a time.

This was what he was always striving for. Peace of mind, just calm. No bombardment of thoughts, no deductions whenever he looked at anything. He felt ordinary like this, and while that word grated at his nerves, it was true at times like this. And during his phases of being high, he enjoyed it. He'd never want to give up being clever for long periods of time. But this was just enough to cure his headaches when his thoughts were coming in too thick and too fast.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" Ah, there was John. Sherlock knew he would return soon.

"I'm not doing anything."

"Are you high?"

"Mm. So it would seem." Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed deeply, but John walked over and… smacked him? In the face!

"What are you doing?" Sherlock yelled, "And how are you doing it?"

John slumped into his armchair and Sherlock watched him compose himself. "Leaving."

"Leaving? You've only just got here!"

John almost smiled, "No, I mean, I'm leaving and I'm not going to be able to come back."

Sherlock took a moment to take all this in, leaving for good? John would never do that! He'd always stay with Sherlock, until the day that Sherlock died and they could have a little 221b up in heaven so Sherlock would never be alone. He'd always have his blogger, his tea maker, his friend. It wouldn't be Sherlock without John.

John watched Sherlock's eyes flicker rapidly from left to right. His breathing accelerated and his lips parted. His brow was furrowed slightly. Sherlock was in shock. John knew that his announcement would have this effect but it's not like he could help it. He'd been feeling off for weeks. He knew what he had to do. It would hurt them both, but somehow, he just knew that staying here would hurt him more.

"Look Sherlock, I don't want to, you know I don't-"

"So don't." Sherlock said John had to freeze; Sherlock's voice was almost husky, a little higher than usual. He was turned so that his head wasn't facing John. Sherlock was crying.

"Sherlock,"

"Stay with me, John." He faced him now, red rimmed eyes and quivering lip, "Don't leave me."

John gulped, swallowing his own sadness. "I have to. It's not… it's not easy being a ghost, Sherlock. It's so lonely; you're the only one that can see me for god's sake. When I'm not with you, I have no one. I miss Mrs Hudson, Harry, and Lestrade. God I even miss Mike sometimes. But when I'm not here, when I'm… well, it's nice. And everyone can see me. Sherlock, I'm miserable."

"You slapped me, John. Maybe you're becoming alive! Moran could see you, maybe everyone else can too!" John hated seeing the rays of hope form in Sherlock's eyes. Water and happiness made them glow and it pained him to put a stop to that.

"He could see me because I was killing him. Technically, I'm killing you too, just being here. I have to take energy from my surroundings so you can see me. Sometimes taking heat from the air isn't enough. To stay with you the other day, fighting Moran, I needed to take energy from him. Therefore killing him. It's what I'm doing to you now, I can't draw that energy from the air anymore."

"How long can you do it for?" Sherlock whispered, all hope lost. He stared at John, not blinking, not daring to look away.

"About an hour. Then you'll die."

They sat in silence, they had so much to say to each other but they didn't know how to say it. They just stared at each other until Sherlock had the courage to speak. He was holding back on the tears though, he didn't like John seeing him weak. He fidgeted in his seat before clearing his throat.

"What's it like, when you're not here?"

"It's nice. It's like this, the flat. But no one's here. My Mum and Dad are, but they're dead so that wasn't surprising. But everyone I really care about is here, you, harry, Mrs Hudson. I love my parents but they aren't enough to keep me there. But they like the flat, they're happy I found somewhere."

"Is it heaven?"

"It's meant to be. But I'm not happy. I can have anything I want, I ask for a beer, I get a beer. But when I asked for…" He stopped halfway, blushing.

"What?"

"When I asked for… you, nothing happened. I can't make it like this, because I'm dead and you're not."

Sherlock was stumped, was this one of those normal people feelings, was that why he couldn't understand? "Why would you want it to be like this?"

"Because I'm happy." John smiled, "I thought that was obvious."

Sherlock chuckled deeply, "I knew you were happy here John. I was happy too, something I'd never really felt before. You helped me." He paused, not quite knowing how to voice his feelings. "There is so much that I should've said to you when you were alive and living with me but I couldn't. I couldn't tell them to anyone. This is a little different, to how I usually feel."

"Just tell me." John said quietly, "I'm not going to be here much longer."

Sherlock knew that, he could feel himself growing cold and tired as John sucked out his energy from his body. He withheld the yawn he felt coming and clenched his fists. He looked straight at John.

"It's just… I wish all this wasn't real. I wish you hadn't died."

"I wish that too, obviously. But I have, and I have to make the best of it. I can't stay here Sherlock; I can't stay where no one can see me. Where no one can talk to me. I can talk to people when I'm away Sherlock, the other ghosts, up in heaven or wherever the bloody hell it is. I never wanted to leave you, but I'm hurting you just staying here."

"Then hurt me!" Sherlock shouted, he leapt up from his armchair and John flinched at the sudden movement. "I was so alone. And I owe you so much. You were the kindest human being I've ever known, and no one will ever convince me otherwise." He sniffed loudly and took in a breath. John looked about to say something but Sherlock cut in. "Oh and one more thing, one more miracle, John, just for me. Don't be… dead." Sherlock was crying now, sobbing more than he ever had. "Just stop, stop this." He gestured to John, who was crying too. Sherlock was breathing heavily, anger and sadness fighting for control. He hated that his voice had broken on the word dead, like it was some kind of emotional trigger. He sat back down and buried his face in his hands, trying to stop the tears as well as all other emotions.

John said nothing, just sat there, dead. He hadn't realised that Sherlock felt that way. Every bone in him was telling him not to do it, not to leave Sherlock here, where he'd be all alone again. But he couldn't stay, every second meant he'd have to drain the life out of him. He couldn't kill Sherlock, couldn't make him a ghost like him. It was selfish, it would make him a murderer. But Sherlock wouldn't live without John.

"What would you do, without me?" John asked, dreading the answer.

"Die." Sherlock said, looking up from his hands, "I'd kill myself to be with you."

"But all the people you help, without you, they'd die."

"John, I don't care. Caring isn't an advantage, the only person I've ever truly cared about was you, and you died. It doesn't matter, everyone dies."

In that case, would it really be murder? If Sherlock would kill himself anyway, then… it would be ok for John to just stay with him for that hour. Take his energy and… no. It wasn't right, he couldn't. He had ten minutes left with Sherlock. He wouldn't spoil them with thoughts like that.

Sherlock's eyes widened as he looked at John, as if he could read his mind. John knew what he was going to say before he said it.

"Kill me, John."

"No."

"Please, John, kill me so we can stay together. Kill me!"

"No! I can't! You may not think you're a hero, Sherlock. But every person you've ever helped – including me – does. They need you alive, I won't be the one to take you away from them."

"But I'll just kill myself anyway. You know I will. And what If I can't find you on the other side? I need to go with you, so I can find my way."

John shook his head, "I'm sorry."

Five minutes left. "Goodbye Sherlock."

"No, John, please. Please don't leave me, please! Take me to, don't, oh John don't please! Please!" Sherlock begged but nothing worked, John just faded, quicker and faster than he had before. It took a few seconds and the armchair was empty. Sherlock roared with loss and pain and flipped the chair onto its back and cried deeply into it. "John…" He moaned. He had to kill himself, to be with John on the other side. Already he could feel the loneliness creeping up on him again. He would not be alone, not again. But John wouldn't want to see him; he couldn't kill Sherlock because of the people that Sherlock would save. There had to be some way…

Xx

A few minutes later and Sherlock had stopped crying, enough anyway that he could pick up the phone. Mycroft answered on the first three rings.

"Brother dear, how can I help you at this late hour?"

"I'm going to die, Mycroft."

"Don't be stupid, Sherlock, you've played this little trick before."

"No, I'm going to kill myself. I miss John, I need John, I can't… I can't be alone again!"

There was a pause on the other end of the line and when Mycroft spoke again it sounded like he was choking.

"I always knew that man would be the death of you. What do you need?"

Sherlock smiled, "Lestrade, teach him our methods. Go with him and show him what to look for, make him deduce. Make him better, so that he won't need my help. He'll never be as good as us, and some people may die, but John would want me to save as many as I can. Teach him, brother. Please."

"Of course. What should I tell Mummy?"

"I don't know, don't tell her anything, I doubt she'd care."

"If that's what you want."

"Yes."

"Sherlock, I'm sorry. About everything that's happened between us. We don't get on, never have. But you are my Brother, and I'll miss you, you arrogant sod."

Sherlock laughed, "I might just miss you to, you posh prat. Goodbye, Mycroft."

"Goodbye Sherlock."

He hung up and breathed once, then dialled another number.

"Sherlock! How nice to hear from you! Is everything ok, do you need my morgue?"

"No, Molly that's ok. Listen, I just wanted to thank you. For everything, there hasn't been any time where you haven't been important to me. You deserve more than I can give you. There's this man, he's got two cats of his own, he works in surgery but he really likes you. He's… cute I suppose."

Molly could hear the catch in his voice. "Sherlock, are you ok?"

"I'm fine. Really. But I, won't be seeing you for a very long time. I'm… going to visit John."

"Oh." She gasped, understanding dawned on her and they sobbed down the line to each other for almost half an hour, talking, thanking each other for the help and friendship. He would really miss her, he realised as he dropped the phone. She'd meant more to him than she could've imagined. But she'd find that surgeon, she'd be happy with him. There was one person left, the most important.

"Mrs Hudson!" He called down the stairs. She rushed up, tutting at being woken at such a time but stopped when she saw his face. Tear streaked and red. He looked tired, aged, broken.

"Dear me, Sherlock. Come here."

He held onto the fragile little woman for ages, whispering to her that he had to go, that there was nothing more he could do here without John. She understood, she cried and hit him more than once which made him laugh. He gave her one last kiss on the cheek and the forehead and pulled on his coat and scarf. "Do whatever you like with my experiments," He told her, "But send the skull to Mycroft. Keep whatever you like."

"Why can't I just bin the skull, it's a horrible thing."

"He's my oldest friend," Sherlock frowned, "And Mycroft hates him just as much as you do."

"Well if that's the case." The little woman smiled at him and a last tear dropped onto her fluffy slippers. "Bye Sherlock."

"Goodbye Mrs Hudson."

Xx

Sherlock looked down over the roof of Bartes. It was still just as tall as when he'd leapt off it the first time. But there was no trash truck this time to break his fall. No carefully laid out plan to keep him alive. This was it, death. He was looking at death and he liked it. It meant peace, comfort and John. He held out his arms and shivered a little in the nightly breeze. Then dropped like a stone.

He didn't feel the fall. He didn't feel the floor when it hit him, not hear the bone crunching smack as his ribs cracked. He saw John's face, felt the pillow as John hit him with it, heard his laugh. Heaven. 221b, just as it always had been. Both dead men, living together conducting experiments. With all the time in the world, able to do what they liked when they liked, together. Finally.

Xx

**And that's all folks! Hoped you liked it, it was fun to write and I'm already working on my next one! What did you think? Reviews!**


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